


House of Bones

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: KyluxFebruaryFicExchange, M/M, Medieval AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a tale of a clever German prince who couldn't fight, an English knight that everyone feared, and of the fiercest warrior who was not all he seemed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirianna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirianna/gifts).



> Written for the Kylux February Fic Exchange, and for Mirianna. Happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> Prompt: "Medieval!AU : Prince and Knight on a battle field"

_The body was referred to as a_ ‘bone-house’ _in Old English, did you know that?_

_No, I didn't._

_Old English was a spectacular language. Modern English has completely destroyed what made the Old so great. You, with your silly text language and strange slang -_

_Hey, don't blame me! I'm no trend setter._

_You don't start trends, sure, but you follow them._

_Good God. Grandma, why are you actually calling right now?_

_Changing the subject...hm. Though it's a good thing you did; I nearly forgot what I was doing. Have you ever read “Beowulf”?_

_Isn't that some epic poem? The first ever in Old English?_

_Well, the first_ written down _in Old English, yes._

_Same thing._

_Oh, shush, you. Historians and poets alike praise “Beowulf” for its excellent imagery and strong language. You know that English is closely related to German, yes?_

_Sure. Why?_

_The Germans like fusing their words to make new, better phrases. I can't think of one off the top of my head, dear, but it's in my noggin somewhere._

_Grandma._

_Oh, yes. Quite sorry. Well, anyway, I called you to see if you wanted to hear a story._

_..._

_Hello? Are you still there?_

_Grandma. It's nearly midnight._

_But it's a lovely story!_

_Why do I need to hear it right now?_

_You loved hearing these sorts of stories when you were just as high as my waist -_

_Yeah. Back when I needed them. I'm older now; this isn't necessary at all._

_I just thought you might like it, is all. I'll just...hang up now if I'm not wanted here._

_..._

_Hello? You keep going silent._

_I'll listen, just be quick about it -_

 

* * *

 

ONCE UPON A TIME,

in a land far, far away, there lived

 

* * *

 

_Sorry, sorry. I can't tell it like this._

_Then how are you going to tell it?_

_It's not a fairy tale. It’s a_ legend _. It may even be history; I wouldn't know._

_Hmm._

_You don't sound interested. Should I just hang up now?_

_Ah- no, no. Uh. No. Just go on. You don't have to tell it like a fairytale. Do whatever you think is best._

_Oh, good. I was worried there for a moment._

 

* * *

 

This story begins in the 14th century. The Bubonic Plague has made its fearsome way across the European continent, and the Hundred Years War is still raging:

France versus England in a seemingly infinite battle that can only end in the ultimate destruction of both kingdoms. Bloodshed, year after year. Mundane warfare, decades wasted. The usual.

But war and battle - it's not just about the treaties and the battles and the statistics. There’s more to it than that. Who goes into battle?

The _people_ do. The good and the evil, right?

Wrong!

These sorts of wars don't have “good versus evil”. There is only one cause versus another. Each is equally right and equally wrong in most cases. Everyone loses something in war. The soldiers and the weapons may be unequal in strength or prowess, but people die all the same. The victors aren't necessarily the people who lose the least.

(Just remember, it is the victors who write history.)

 

* * *

 

_Dear, I've gone off topic._

_You were talking about France and England in the Hundred Years War._

_Oh!_

 

* * *

 

Our story today is about a cold prince and a fiery knight. Sworn enemies by the spilt blood of their forefathers, they must enter a fatal duel - for honor, glory, prestige.

For the Medieval period was one of chivalry. Gallantry! Grace! Goodness!

I'm joking. They may have sung of such pretty ideals, but they were all brutes.

Or, well, most were.

Prince Hux certainly was not. ‘Prince’ was something of an honorary title, to be perfectly frank. He was actually German, and the title ‘prince’ referred more to his vast landholding rather than any royal lineage. Hux was fighting for the French; he was, according to his father, to make his fortune and to build a reputation by way of succeeding in battle.

Which he was doing surprisingly fine with, actually. Hux commanded his troops well, even if they did comment on his hair from time to time. He was an excellent strategist -

 

* * *

 

_What was wrong with his hair?_

_It was bright orange. Like a carrot._

_That's really weird. Germans aren't redheads, are they?_

_Hush._

 

* * *

 

Hux commanded his troops with all the iron will and fox-like cunning expected from those of his bloodline. And just from courtiers in general, actually.

Male courtiers, lords, were to be intelligent and learned, but also handy with a weapon and brave in a fight. Hux was sure he'd fulfilled the first part, but he highly doubted his capability regarding the latter.

What he specialized in was strategy. On the battlefield, he could hold his own against the average warrior. But to fight an expert would be folly (and suicide) - he made a strange character for a legend. True men of his age were not as slim and easily fatigued as he was. It was a source of mild embarrassment for the German prince, but he mostly pushed such vain thoughts far out of mind.

Now, if you really wanted a medieval hero, the infamous Dark Knight was your man.

 

* * *

 

 _Is this_ ‘Batman’ _?_

_What on Earth gave you such a peculiar idea, dear?_

_…Nevermind._

 

* * *

 

The Dark Knight was his calling card. But he held the title ‘Kylo Ren’, the highest prestige a warrior could receive in the British region he hailed from. And with good reason.

He was quite the opposite of Prince Hux. Ren’s head of rich black hair clashed against the bright orange of Hux’s own; his pale, foreign English skin was sickeningly white against Hux’s healthy tan; his voice was soft and smooth and slippery where Hux’s tended towards brash and loud and impassioned.

Ren was also handy with a sword. Hux could pack a swing or two, but Ren would kill one or two in the same time.

Both of them were aware - to an extent - of all of this information before the battle. But of course, it was mostly exaggerated.

(Ren wasn't actually seven feet tall, and Hux's hair did not glow with the might of a setting sun.)

The first time they came face to face was at what this poet called the Reckoning of Calais. Wasn't much of a reckoning, really, but you couldn't exactly call it a ‘battle’ either.

 

* * *

 

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

_Let me tell the story, dear. Now...where to start?_

 

* * *

 

If it were not for the threatening battle, Hux might have enjoyed the scenery surrounding him.

He was passing down a path along the edge of the woods, a dense and dangerous place. The woods were full of rich greens and dancing shadows, with strange and bizarre creatures too small or too fierce for game. The setting sun in the back only added to its mystery.

But it was also the quickest and shortest route. Though, ‘quickest’ didn't count for much, actually.

Hux had been riding for five hours straight when his second-in-command (who was really the one in charge, at least in the eyes of the soldiers) finally called for rest.

“We'll camp here,” the blonde captain announced in a booming voice, so that all the men could hear, “and continue on our merry way at first light. Unpack the steeds and set up the tents, and we'll feast well on the game we've caught!”

A hearty cheer arose from within the ranks, and everyone unsaddled with great relief. Sitting upon a horse was highly uncomfortable and left many a backside sore and bruised. But it was more efficient than walking, so that was that.

“Captain,” Hux started after he'd secured his black warhorse.

The strange, willowy young man turned around, an eyebrow raised in appraisal. He'd always been a bizarre sort - not only were his features fine and willowy, but his voice lacked the gruff grizzle of the fierce warriors he served alongside.

Not that he wasn't fierce. He was actually very fierce. And frightening. (In battle and off field alike, actually.)

Hux couldn't remember the man's name for the life of him. He was always just referred to as The Captain, because it was his rank, his prowess, and his valiance that defined him.

“My Liege,” the Captain acknowledged, finishing off the knot that tethered his horse. “How might I be of service?”

Hux glanced about, to be sure he was free of dropping ears. Luckily for the two of them, there was no one about to overhear the sensitive information he was about to disclose. He gripped the Captain’s arm and took him to a shadowy portion of the woods, ignoring his beseeching inquiries.

“I have received word,” Hux said in a low voice, “that the English are closer than we feared. We'll likely be forced to meet in battle this morrow or the next.”

Luckily, the Captain kept calm. (A lesser man would have broken into complete panic, or fled immediately.) “Perfect. We'll take time tonight to prepare; surely these oafs will be able to polish their weaponry in time, even through the mead they consume.”

Hux let the Captain’s arm go, nearly sagging with relief. He didn't, of course. He had appearances to keep up. Hux was a Prince, a man of a worthy bloodline that God Himself had blessed. “You have my thanks, Captain. Carry on with your duties. We can discuss strategy tonight in the Great Tent.”

The Captain bowed his platinum head and retreated to the bonfire, where his men clapped his back with alcohol-driven enthusiasm.

Hux adjusted his cloak over his shoulder, feeling the press of its soft warmth. It was blood red, the color of the House of Hux. The banners his men carried were of the same color, adorned in black decorative borders and a peculiar black star, an emblem his great Germanic forefathers had designed. All of the Hux generations wore it with pride and dignity.

It was thus comforting to see the banner fly over the camp. The sight of its vivid majesty against the darkening sky gave him the hope and confidence he would need on the battlefield.

Hux pulled the cloak a little closer.

 

* * *

 

Kylo Ren was a living legend, but his tale is not the one these pages recount.

He was known as the Knight Killer - not because he had killed a single knight, but because, as the common folk whispered, he had defeated a horde of them single-handedly. His blade ran red with the blood of those who dared challenge him; his eyes burned black with murderous fury. Some even claimed he was part dragon because of his impressive might and iron grip.

They didn't know how close they were to the truth.

“BEN!”

Ben opened his eyes to see his disapproving mother frowning down upon him. “What waking hour is this?” he grumbled, sitting up to rub his thick head of hair.

“ _Your_ waking hour,” Lady Organa said simply, tossing a shirt at him. “Get up so that you might dine with the rest of the family. After the victory you'll secure for us today today, we'll start immediately on negotiations, so try not to get yourself badly injured. We may need you.”

Her son gave a sharp bark of laughter, though it held no real joy. “When have I ever been badly injured? No man has ever proven himself worthy enough to cut the Dark Knight.”

“Only fools are so cocky,” the Lady said simply. “Now, dress.”

“And why do I have to stand guard as your watch-dog?” Ben continued in an increasingly hostile tone.

Lady Organa’s mouth twitched into a frown. “Are you questioning a direct order?”

Ben’s eyes flickered with something indiscernible. “You may be a noble, but are you not also my mother?”

“Mind your tongue,” Lady Organa warned coolly, sweeping her skirts back and straightening her spine to make herself taller.

The Knight scoffed and turned away, but he did not rebuttal.

“And hurry up,” she added as she prepared to make a stiff exit, “everyone is waiting and hungry.”

 

* * *

 

There was much talk in the English camp. The famous, or rather, _infamous_ , Dark Knight was among them. No one had ever seen his face, and everyone was sure he meant to keep it that way. Perhaps he really was part dragon.

Some whispered that his face had a jagged scar across it, but whether it came from battle or from disease was up to debate. Surely no one dared to injure the invincible Dark Knight in battle, but then, how could a disease leave such a specific scarring?

No one dared say a thing to his face, of course. (Or, well, to his helmet.)

After a brief repast for breakfast - the Dark Knight eating in the privacy of the House of Organa’s tent, as per usual - England’s army set on its way to intercede the French at the region of Calais. They were a formidable force; the cavalry and the archers together already deadly.

England had invented the longbow. Firing up to six arrows per minute, the weapon could pierce the armor of the fiercest knight at up to two hundred yards away.

The French had crossbows. Effective, but a meer child's toy in comparison to the might of the longbow.

Kylo Ren could not help the fiendish grin that spread beneath his dark helmet. This would be far too easy.

 

* * *

 

Hux was nervous, not that he'd admit it. Their army was supposed to do better. They were fighting on their own soil - or, at least, his mens were. They were French; he was German. He supposed that was why the men tended toward the Captain, who was of French blood himself.

Well, Hux technically had French blood himself. His mother had been French, but she had died soon after giving birth to him. Even so, his nurse was French and she was the one who taught him the language - and a bit of English, as she’d had relatives who had roots in England. (She'd also been a good friend of his mother's… But that was a story for another time.)

Hux’s story was to be of the war - the commoners were starting to refer to it as the Hundred Year War, for all the time it had continued to lay waste. It was not going in their favor; the English were far more clever than they’d been led to believe. The French king poured his resources into his army to no avail, and it seemed as if they would lose - badly.

Surely his father was shaking his head in disgust now. He’d thought he’d put his son on the winning side, to bring a greater honor to the House of Hux, but it did not seem the case now.

“General.”

Hux looked up from the path to the Captain’s eyes. The young man’s mouth was set in a hard grimace. “Captain.”

“We’ve about two hours until estimated contact. Shall I alert the men?”

He hesitated. Would it be wise to prepare them, or would it only worsen their nerves? This was a battle he did not want to lose. The men would have to be in top condition. “Perhaps when we are nearer to their campsite. There is no need to worry them too far in advance.”

The Captain nodded sharply, tugging on his horse’s reins to guide it into a faster trot.

There was something nagging at Hux, however. Something was off. The air was too still; the early morning was too sharp; the forest was too quiet. Hux knew the Captain carried the same fears. His shoulders were tensed and tight, as if expecting a sudden attack.

Perhaps that was exactly what lay in store.

 

* * *

 

_Oh, dear, my voice is dying. Do you mind dreadfully if I get a glass of water?_

_But…ugh. Fine. Hurry up, Grandma._

_…_

_Are you done yet?_

_…_

_Grandma?_

_…_

_Grandma!_

_Sorry, dear, sorry, I'm back. Should -_

_Grandma. That was nearly 20 minutes._

_Things happen when you get older; you'll see._

_That’s exactly_ why _… Oh, forget it. Just continue with your story._

_Are you sure? You sound peculiar. Are you feeling alright?_

_I'm_ fine.

 

* * *

 

The air was still static and charged when Hux's company finally made it out of the woods. The sun was shining as fiercely as it ever had, and the nagging feeling was still picking at the edge of his mind. There was something amiss.

Perhaps it was just the sweltering heat. Perhaps it was the sickness that had begun to overtake his men - though, that was likely also a side-effect of the God-damned heat.

Sweat dripped beneath his helmet as he urged his stallion down the trodden path. The Captain had said some farmers had used it before while migrating, but when he’d tried to confirm the source - it was a new path; he didn’t want to fall off a cliff by accident - he’d only insisted that it was perfectly safe.

Not very reassuring, but Hux trusted the Captain. Against his better judgement, really; he knew next to nothing about the man. Just that he was a loyal fighter and good man, and put up with Hux’s half-decent French.

“Five minutes until we reach the clearing,” the Captain murmured. His shoulders were flanked back and his back was rigidly straight, but Hux could see his fingers trembling about the reins of the horse. The Captain was either nervous or excited; though, it was more likely the latter.

Hux nodded. “Thank you. Have the men organize into formation.” He sped up his horse as the Captain slowed his down and motioned for the troops to reform.

Hux's place was at the front with the Captain. He needed to lead the battle physically and in mind, as he was their leader. There was no other way to prove he was worthy of his title as ‘Prince’ in this war. The Captain had pulled him aside in concern before regarding his health (he'd always been a more frail child), and while he appreciated the gesture, it was damningly embarrassing.

He had to fight for his own. It was a matter of honor, pride, and worth. His fate did not matter, so long as he made his House proud.

 

* * *

 

The English were waiting on the other side of the clearing when the French arrived.

The opposing armies faced off for a moment:

It was all very dramatic, of course. The sun was at mid-noon height, and was shining through the wispy silver clouds; the wind chilled them all with its breath. Kylo Ren, the Dark Knight, shone grimly in his dark armor. The Prince of the House of Hux did not waver.

And then both armies, having established themselves as enemies of the worst sort, charged with a cry of thunder.

 

* * *

 

Hux was surprised to note that battle was not too terrible an ordeal. He hadn't died yet, which was a good sign. He hadn't struck anyone down yet, either, but he'd given a few nasty bruises to some unsuspecting Englishmen.

The German prince didn't have the same hatred towards the English that the French people did, but it was so intense that it must be rooted in good reason.

He'd asked the Captain about it before, he idly recalled as his horse trampled some poor fellow, but he'd not given a straight answer.

There came a sudden roar of English gibberish, and the razor sharp sound of a sword unsheathing. Hearing the shouting come nearer, Hux realized with a start that _someone was challenging him_.

Hux turned his horse around to face whatever opponent dared face down a German prince, and was intrigued to see shining dark armor. It looked heavy; the man was practically dragged down into the dust of battle.

But his dark armor, his sword with the ruby-encrusted hilt. Hux knew exactly who this man was.

He made his decision; admittedly, it was likely a poorly-made one conceived in the heat of battle. “And who are you?” shouted Hux, hopping off his steed, maddeningly uncaring for his own life.

Because this was dangerous. This was very, very dangerous, because this was the Dark Knight, and not recognizing him and his reputation was a grievous insult. The Dark Knight, if not bloodlusting before, was furious now.

Hux hoped his young cousin was ready to inherit the House of Hux. There was no chance that he was going to leave the battlefield today.

This had been a horrible idea. His father usually kept him from going into battle for this exact reason - he was not trusted to fight without making rash decisions. He was kept in the tents of strategy, where he could do the most good and cause the least damage to himself, the much admired heir to the Hux bloodline.

So what was he doing here?

He had to do battle at least once. Just enough to prove to the other Princes that he was not so girlish as to avoid a fight. Just enough to show the world that yes, he was worth more than a pen and paper. That he could pick up a sword and swing just as well as any other man.

His father had whispered to attend this battle because he’d thought it’d be a small force. An easy victory that ended with a crown in his son’s lap and an honor to the family name.

They hadn’t banked on the Dark Knight.

He was only a few feet from Hux now, seething with a fury that Hux could feel radiating in waves off of him. His family’s shield reflected in the colorful orange-red of his regalia, reminding all those who dared oppose him of who was behind him.

Hux had heard tales of his many feats, and his victories in near-combat. He wished fervently for a crossbow to back him, but Hux knew somewhere in his heart of hearts that there was no one coming to his rescue but himself. So he drew his sword and dug his heels into the ground to face the mess he’d gotten himself into.

 

* * *

 

This man was either extremely insane or unluckily brave.

He'd stepped up to Kylo’s challenge with an insult (what he'd said exactly was a bit fuzzy; Kylo hadn't paid much attention during his French studies and found himself sort of wishing that he had) and then drawn his sword. And he'd done all this likely knowing that no one who faced the Dark Knight, the Knight Killer, lived to tell the tale.

“You dare draw your sword against I, Kylo Ren?” he shouted, using the full force of his height to draw intimidation. It worked against most of his other opponents, who were usually heads shorter than him. They would quiver and shake, and suddenly look much less brave than they had moments ago. These sort were the easiest to toss aside.

But it didn’t work on this strange Frenchman. He only ignored the battle around him and stepped heavily towards the Black Knight, dragging the pounds of gleaming silver armor with the iron of his own will.

(Kylo Ren had targeted him because he was obviously in charge - he had the largest horse and the most refined armor - yet he had acted as if he was unsure of what he was doing. Killing him would be both easy and strategic.

Except maybe it wouldn’t be.)

When he’d gotten himself to a suitable distance from Kylo Ren, the Frenchman drew his sword and cried hoarsely, “ _Je vais pas partir en courant!_ ”

It was insane, but Kylo Ren wanted to laugh. (Perhaps that was why he wanted to laugh - because the situation was so ridiculous. A strange, likely soft, Frenchman standing up to the Knight Killer. It should have been implausible.) “I do not understand French,” he admitted in his own tongue, amused, “but I am sure whatever you have said is admirably courageous.”

His opponent hefted the heavy sword. He was uncomfortable with the weapon; Kylo Ren could see that clearly. “ _Tu dois te battre pour ton honneur, Anglais. Tu vas me battre ou pas?_ ” the Frenchman bit out.

(It was clearly meant to be offensive.

Kylo Ren fell for it - hook, line, and sinker.)

Blood immediately rushed to Kylo Ren’s cheeks and pounded away in his head. The Frenchman had deigned to use the formal form of ‘you’, a given due to Kylo Ren’s status as a knight and the son of a lord. It was his God-given right to be treated with respect. _Violating that?_ \- that was a rudeness that he would surely pay for.

“You want a fight?” the Dark Knight hissed. “Come at me and take it.”

 

* * *

 

Hux had never had a worse idea, and that included the time when he was seven and had attempted to steal his father’s jewels.

So, really, it was a good thing when the knight cloaked in black suddenly crumpled to the ground, his scarlet-ridden hilt scattered through the tall grass.

The Prince flipped up his helmet’s visor in shock, the sword also loosened from his grip. He scanned the area for his savior (because who was he kidding? he would not have survived the day if not for this), and was unsurprised to see the Captain standing over the Dark Knight with a blade in his hands.

“I could have handled the situation,” Hux lied, his voice quivering with adrenaline.

“I don’t doubt it for a moment, sir,” the Captain responded dryly from behind his own helmet. He straightened up, and resheathed his sword. “We should take this one hostage,” he added, nodding towards the fallen Kylo Ren. “He’s worth a lot to the English. Could probably trade him for their surrender. Avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.”

Hux sheathed his own sword and nodded, impressed. “Excellent idea, Captain. I’ll aid you with the removal of the body.”

“Not in the thick of this warfare,” the Captain laughed tonelessly.

It was true. The battle around the two of them (or, well, the three of them) was thick with bodies and blood and corpses. Arrows sprung out of the ground like daisies. Men fell like trees.

There was already small chance of them escaping with their own still-breathing bodies, let alone with a third.

But the Dark Knight was a key bargaining token. They would need the English to see the defeat of their venerable leader as well as ensure they did not take him. The easiest way to do that would be to behead him then and there, then carry his head about on a pike.

He doubted the Captain would be adverse to the tactic.

Yet he couldn't forget the man’s value alive.

_So how to escape?_

 

* * *

 

The Captain seemed to be observing Hux from beneath his silver helmet. “Are you sure about this, sir?” he asked, obviously feeling unsure.

In response, Hux swatted the large horse’s rump, sending the beast careening across the battlefield toward the French camp - with the Dark Knight draped elegantly across its back.

As the English noticed the sight, each of them seemed to go still with shock, disarmed as they were by the peculiarity.

The French rose up in a cheer, their confidence renewed and their spirits lifted as the battlefield lit with the cries of victory.

“Of course I'm sure, Captain,” Hux replied confidently.

(The two easily snuck back to the French camp in the confusion.)

 

* * *

 

Hux was just about to start stripping himself of the horrible armor when a head poked its way into his private tent.

“My Liege,” said a young man with slick black hair (Merrylad? Midka? Mitaka?) and a nervous disposition, “ _the_ Dark Knight is unconscious on a horse.”

“Very observant of you,” Hux deadpanned, peeling off his chestplate. “Is that all?”

“My Liege,” the Medlark continued urgently, “you don't understand; he's the _Knight Killer_.”

Hux fixed him with a steely glare usually reserved for particularly annoying nobles. Midlackey gulped visibly. “I understand quite clearly. I sent him here myself.”

“Oh. Dreadfully sorry, My Liege,” Malarkey mumbled before removing his head (finally) and darting off.

 

* * *

 

It was late in the evening when Hux got word on Ren once more. The messenger did not poke their head through the tent, but merely entered fully, unaccustomed to the usual privacy. Hux was forced to pause in reading the various reports he'd received that day in his limiting French.

“What do we do with the Knight?” the Captain demanded bluntly.

“Send a ransom letter to the English. That was your idea, was it not?”

“Sir… He's proving more difficult to handle now.”

“You told me you had the situation under control, Captain.”

“I did. Then he gained more consciousness.”

Hux was infinitely tired. “What do _you_ expect to do with him?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“We write up a suitable document detailing our exact demands and send it with a page. The exchange is Kylo Ren.”

“That what was you expected to do with him. Your mind has changed since then, Captain.”

“Since when have you been a mind-reader, sir?”

“I have no time for games. Speak plainly.”

The Captain paused, briefly. “Execution. He’s a volatile danger.”

Hux did not find himself shocked in the least, and silently agreed to the Captain’s assessment. “We’ll have to question him first. See if we can garner any information. You speak some English, do you not?”

“Yes, sir, I learnt some as a child.”

“Excellent. I know only very little; would you be willing to translate for me?”

 

* * *

 

Kylo Ren looked up when sunlight poured into the little space he was allowed. He knew not how he'd ended up in the small tent with excellent restraints that he hadn't figured out how to pick quite yet. That was frustrating.

He also knew that they were foreigners. He couldn't understand a lick of what was being said outside the tent, even with the sounds of the camp there to help him as well.

(It was the French. It was the French and he knew it but he was loath to admit it. He'd never been beat before, see.

How could the fool from the battle earlier have defeated him? His form had been sloppy, especially with the nerves that had shaken his veins. His armor had shone with disuse. Everything about him screamed _I AM GOING TO DIE._

And Kylo Ren was a veteran and a walking, breathing legend. It was impossible. He should not have lost.)

The sound of the tent flap opening shook him from his reverie.

In stepped a tall man with dramatic cheekbones, startlingly green eyes, and a head of blood fire. He wore a tunic of forest green - the deep dye showed his wealth, though Ben knew for a fact that the material alone cost a fortune - and a cloak of red as bright as apples.

(To scream his victory in battle, to display his house’s colors, or simply for fashion?)

A slightly younger man followed him in. He was very cleanly shaven, and had bright blonde hair. His clothing was nowhere near as rich or as complicated as the man's was, but Ben could tell it had been altered. And alterations weren't cheap, yet the young man simply seemed to cry _no riches no nothing_.

And there was something else off about him. Kylo Ren couldn’t determine exactly what about him was off-putting, but he had a strange confidence that it would come to light eventually.

“Kylo Ren,” the redhead stated. His English was strange. It did not sound natural; it was halting and flavored with uncertainty.

The knight looked up and nodded in acknowledgement to his visitors, his gaze lingering on the speaker. “You’ve heard of me.”

“We have,” answered the blonde in slightly better English, lips tipped down in a slight frown.

Kylo Ren adjusted his shackled wrists and gave the pair a charismatic smile. “You’ll be translating, I assume?”

“I will,” the blonde merely replied, expression neutral, “but you are to address Prince Hux of the Germanic House of Hux.”

Kylo Ren turned to the prince and tossed him a grin in an attempt to unsettle him. He had a feeling that intimidation would not work well. “If we’re to use our titles, then you should address me as Sir Ben Organa of the English House of Organa.”

The blonde repeated what he’d said to Hux without hesitation. Hux’s eyes flashed, and he spat something back in rapid French.

“We are not here for formalities,” the translator stated dryly. “You will answer our questions...” He hesitated briefly. “You will answer cleanly and then you will be returned to your home. Do not play tricks with us.”

Kylo Ren shrugged as best as he could with his wretched manacles. “A few questions and a guaranteed return home is a small price to pay for defeat in battle.”

A feral grin spread across the blonde’s face, sending a chill down the knight’s spine. “Did it hurt when my sword hit you?” he mocked.

Kylo Ren saw red for precisely ten seconds.

It was lucky for the pair that Hux murmured something to his companion. The blonde restraightened, vestiges of cruelty faded into smooth skin.

“How many men are you?” the translator snapped.

Kylo Ren ripped at his manacles. “Coward,” he hissed, struggling to drag himself forward. These were the fools that had ruined him - they were not simply nobles anymore; they were thieves and crooks and traitors. They were not messengers. These men were personally responsible for his grief, and for that, they were going to pay.

“ _How many men are you?_ ” the translator repeated, anger flashing for the first time across his murky eyes.

Kylo Ren slammed a palm on the earthen ground, the _slap_ resounding heavily throughout the tent.

The blonde went rigid.

Hux’s foreign green eyes locked on Kylo Ren’s and for the first time that day, they truly regarded one another. There was something unfathomably calming in those green pools, Ben observed, something deep and rooted and constant. It promised safety and protection and still waters; it made Ben feel cool and warm at the same time, which was novel and not altogether unwelcome.

And then Hux spun abruptly on his heel and left, and Kylo Ren’s safety disappeared.

 

* * *

 

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Which one?”

Kylo Ren was not in the mood for games. But he could probably win this one with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back - except his hands were already tied behind his back. He was quite uncomfortable.

The blonde raised a dark eyebrow, obviously amused. “The one I am going to tell you, English.”

“Does it have to do with you, or with me? Why should I even care?” Kylo Ren asked, both dismissive and even.

The blonde squatted so that they were eye-level, clearly relishing how the balance of power tipped in his direction. “Kylo Ren, Knight Killer, Sir Ben Solo,” he said simply, “you will not live to the end of the week. If I had my way,” he added, “you would not live to the end of the day.

“Alas, I answer to the German prince. He wants you alive because he thinks you have value,” the blonde noted (almost tragically). “But we both know that all you have…” The blonde trailed off, raising a finger to shove the Knight in the chest. “...is sticky, red blood on your sword and lives of loved innocents to stain your hands.”

Kylo Ren scooted away from the outstretched finger in disgust. “And you? Are you any better? I doubt it,” he sneered. “You are a man of warfare as well.” An empty, fleeting smile. “Assuming you are what you say you are.”

The blonde bristled. “You swore to speak plainly.”

“And you swore you were a _man_ of honor when you took up arms.” Kylo Ren let his gaze drop to the blonde’s chest -

\- and his face was thrown aside.

The blonde had slapped him.

Hard.

Stinging, red, throbbing where skin had met skin.

When he turned back, he grinned through his blur-rimmed vision. The blonde’s face swam in his vision, and he knew with a thrill of pleasure that he had managed to get under his - _her_ \- skin.

“You cannot speak of this,” the blonde whispered, a thread of menace hiding, threading, perhaps, under her words that so obviously brimmed with fear. “You will tell no one. Do not dare even speak it to the wind, or think it -”

“I see the way you look at him,” Kylo Ren interrupted, dizzy but high on adrenaline. Something about artificial courage? Or was this real courage? “Let me go, and no one will ever hear of this again. Especially not your _German prince_.” He practically spat the last part, relishing the obvious pain that clutched at her throat.

The blonde was silent. Kylo Ren tried to read her face, but her cold blue eyes were hard and unrevealing. “I cannot,” she said finally. “You are to be executed at the end of this week.”

His eyebrows knit together, more from habit than actual confusion. “You said you would return me to my own army,” he said.

She shrugged. “I lied.”

Kylo Ren sneered, kicking at the dirt in front of him. A cloud puffed up and dissipated. The blonde waved a hand at the dust, clearing it away with little discomfort. “Serpent.”

“Like you’re any better, O Dark Knight,” the blonde mocked. She plucked a rag out the side of her belt and tossed it at the feral man at her feet. “Try to make yourself presentable. The Prince will come back to speak with you.”

“You understand that you have no chance with him,” Kylo Ren said as a last jab.

She glanced back at him, hand reaching to the tent flap. “My gender does not fit his taste,” she murmured before slipping out.

Kylo Ren smirked at her back. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

“So, you are the Dark Knight,” said Hux in slow and halting English.

“I am,” Kylo Ren answered, speaking clearly and calmly despite the red sting across his cheek.

“And here you are,” Hux continued, starting to pace across the entrance of the tent, “sprawled on the dirt like a common. Do you find yourself on your knees often?”

Kylo Ren would say that the insult glanced off his skin like water, but he would be lying. It dug under his skin and burrowed irritance ever so slightly. It would grow with time, he knew. “Do you often stab your opponents in the back?” he fired back.

Hux gave him a faintly condescending look. “This was my first battle.”

The knight evened him with a cool gaze. “Then congratulations on surviving.”

“Thank you,” Hux said with something resembling a faint smile.

He looked nice like that. The uplifting corners of his mouth had recalled a brief memory of green pools and a flash of peace. That was hard to find on the battlefield, or anywhere, really. Sometimes it felt like the world was moving far too quickly for Ben to follow, but at the same time, the fast-paced adventure of it all was what drove Ben to keep moving.

“Who are you?” asked Kylo Ren.

“I am a German prince of the House of Hux; whatever else does not matter,” Hux answered easily, dismissively.

It sounded rehearsed to Ben. “Do you have a Christian name?”

Hux looked vaguely confused.

“Not your familial name,” Kylo Ren corrected.

“That does not matter.” Hux frowned and stopped pacing. “Why the questions?”

Kylo Ren yanked at his wrist binds, a thorn of annoyance flashing up his spine. He needed to do something. He didn’t know what. “Why such tight binds? I don’t know where I am. Where would I run away to?”

“The decision is not mine,” Hux replied honestly. (He couldn’t lie in English. It wasn’t familiar enough.)

“But you’re in charge of this camp.”

“In contract,” Hux admitted, mild distaste flittering across his features. “In spirit? That is more difficult.” He nodded his chin towards Kylo Ren’s restraints. “You must speak with the Captain.”

Kylo Ren attempted to wrap his mind around that. “You do not mind he-” ( _no_ ) “-his power over you?”

Hux squatted down in the dirt in front of the knight. “Whatever it takes to further the cause.” Which wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t quite a truth, either.

“Devoted,” Kylo Ren commented.

 

* * *

 

His eyes were as pitch black as night and as alluring as the moonlight.

 

* * *

 

Hux tilted his head, his visage twisted into something unpleasant; he leaned slightly closer, likely unconsciously. “Overly so, some would say.”

“It’s not so bad a thing,” Kylo Ren countered.

 

* * *

 

His voice was low. Hux wondered if that was on purpose; if the fire that burned at the knight’s center was supposed to set Hux’s soul on fire.

 

* * *

 

“Some of my men,” Hux said, “say that it is...” He paused; he needed the right word. “...that it is weak. Of me.”

Kylo Ren gave as best a shrug as he could. “Then they underestimate the power of dedication.”

 

* * *

 

His lashes were long and thick. They framed his moonlight eyes well.

 

* * *

 

“They want you dead,” Hux told the man. He ignored the twinge of remorse at the thought.

Kylo Ren’s eyes flickered with curiosity. “I know.”

He regretted his words as soon as he thought them, but they tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them: “I will not let you die.”

 

* * *

 

Acid in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

Kylo Ren narrowed his eyes. “You have no power over your men.”

“I will…” Hux stared at him for a moment, his face clearing yet also slacking.

He was unused to this uncertainty.

 

* * *

 

Would he commit treason for this man he barely knew? This man with the blood of tens of hundreds of fathers on his hands?

Was his moonlight worth the destruction of all that Hux believed in?

 

* * *

 

“I will try,” Hux promised, but he knew as he made it that it was empty.

Promises were supposed to be reassurances. They were supposed to be golden, good things made freely and with honor.

He wanted to laugh at this, but the bitterness in his stomach and his throat and on the tip of his tongue would not allow it.

 

* * *

 

_So? Does he die?_

_I’m surprised you didn’t comment on the romance. You always screamed “GROSS!” whenever princesses got kissed in the movies._

_Yeah, well, I’m older now. So, like, it’s just whatever. But does he die?_

_I don’t know._

_You do! Just tell me! Do they get a happy ending?_

_What do you think?_

_That’s not a real answer, Grandma -_

 

* * *

 

Hux slept fitfully that night.

Rivers of red and pools of black swam together in a steep mist that covered the battlefield. His boots dug into the mud and layered the back of his fine clothing in grime, but he didn’t care. He was preoccupied with something. It tore at at his soul and clawed at him to _come back, come back_ , because he’d forgotten something. Or he’d let someone down. The atmosphere tasted like remorse and stank of betrayal. Something terrible had happened.

Or someone? He couldn’t remember. It was all a blur. The makings of nonsense that usually fueled the strangest of dreams.

 

* * *

 

“When is the Dark Knight to be executed?”

“At noon. Today. He refused to cooperate yesterday. We’ll send a condolence letter to his family tomorrow, and with it, we’ll post the demands of their surrender.”

“I assume that we are working under the belief that they’ll lose faith along with their commander, Captain?”

“Yes.”

“A well-developed plan, as usual.”

“I’m just doing my job, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Hux did not understand the attraction he felt towards Kylo Ren.

It was not anything he’d ever felt for a woman. That was thoughts of spring and poetry, of sunrises and smooth, warm skin. Of sweet-cakes and sweet laughter, and of well-ripened wine. It was nice, being in love with a woman. Most were coy and clever and cultured, and would make fine companions in court.

But this knight was different.

There was something in his manner that spoke of power and agility, of fire and of Hell. Of violence, blood, and adrenaline. Of icy winter nights and sweltering summer noons, and paths leading into murky waters.

Kylo Ren was not safe, and they did not speak the same language, but Hux determined that he could put his trust in this chaos of a man.

Perhaps more than that, someday.

 

* * *

 

He told the Captain he would escort Kylo Ren from the tent (in a show of power, dominance, strength, whatever they wanted to call it), and so he had the keys to the prisoner’s shackles. The Captain had handed them over without hesitation, which lent Hux some guilt, but he was a man not easily swayed from his goal.

“We must be quick,” Hux told Kylo Ren sharply under his breath, his English slung together unevenly. “I have hidden supplies in the woods, but you will not be able to find them without me. Do not try.”

“You are coming with?” That was surprising. Kylo Ren had been expecting to make the journey himself.

 

* * *

 

This could be a problem, Kylo Ren realized.

But Hux began to speak once more.

 

* * *

 

“As soon as I,” pause, “let go of you, I become a traitor to these people and to my own family. It is no easy task you ask of me.”

“I never asked this of you,” Ben told him as Hux began to unlock his cuffs. “You offered, and I did not refute.”

“Refute?” The word tasted strange on his tongue. “No, don’t bother,” he added hastily as Kylo Ren opened his mouth to explain himself.

Instead, Hux set his small bag on the floor and pulled out a string with a single, thick key on it. The key to Kylo Ren’s freedom, very literally.

 

* * *

 

Kylo Ren took note of the finely created knife in Hux’s bag, at the bottom, but gleaming in the torchlight. A sign? Should he heed it?

 

* * *

 

_Click._

One of Kylo Ren’s wrists was finally free, and he held it up to his face in wonder. The firelight from a torch cast eerie shadows on his face, and Hux nearly shuddered.

He was clever, yes, but he’d still listened to witch stories as he’d grown up. The witches they described were not unlike the other man in this moment - in the violet sunset and the shadows, he looked like the darkness would swallow him down with ease.

But he did not heed to universe’s warnings, and he unlocked Kylo Ren’s other chain.

_Click._

And he was free.

Both men stood up at the same pace - slowly and carefully; maintaining eye contact the entire, slow climb up; seeing each other at eye-level for the first time.

“Thank you,” Kylo Ren said, and his eyes were peculiarly soft.

Hux forgot that this man was dangerous. He let go of all that made sense and put him in control, and he moved forward to take Kylo Ren’s arms. Maddening passion - was this what the poets sang about? Was this the lute that strummed the songs of love? What was this?

“Do you feel it?” Hux whispered, his bright green eyes still locked on Kylo Ren’s dark ones. Searching, searching, searching - they would not find.

And so he leaned forward so that their lips met and hope, irrationally, that maybe then he’d see a spark of light in the man’s moonlight eyes. But of course he wouldn’t be able to, because his eyes were closed.

Kylo Ren tasted like blood and sweat and foolish bravery, and recklessness and poorly made decisions. Moonlight and dark rivers, and fog and empty churches.

And even if it was cold and still, it was better than anything Hux had ever tasted.

 

* * *

 

Kylo Ren did not feel it.

He did, however, know that he would never be able to escape with this German prince who had never seen true combat. And he knew that the only way for him to live was by the silver knife clutched coolly against his palm.

“I’m sorry,” Kylo Ren said honestly as metal flashed forward and darted up. “I liked your eyes very much.”

Green blinked in confusion and despair - more the former than the latter - and he collapsed to the dirt floor at the knight’s feet. Red leaked from his side, blooming then flooding the tent. It was on Ben's hands, too - sticky iron staining him for his sins.

Ben felt a twinge of guilt at the prince’s death. Nothing too serious, though. He just regretted that the German had cared too much - which wasn’t his fault at all. He hadn’t been aware of the man’s feelings.

Kylo Ren would be making this journey alone.

 

* * *

 

_Grandma, that was a horrible story._

_Not every story has a happy ending, you know._

_Still. Why'd he have to die?_

_That's what people do, dear._

_That's sad._

_But it's a good story, isn't it?_

_If that's what you're into, I guess. It was interesting. So the Captain is a woman?_

_Yes. We women didn't have much going for us back then, you know. It was mostly just looking pretty._

_That's horrible._

_It is, isn't it? Well, it's past your bedtime. I'll call you tomorrow to wish your mother a "happy Valentine's"!_

_Right. Good ni-_

Click.

 

* * *

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, indeed! Thanks, Mirianna, for a wonderful prompt; I hope you enjoyed the story!


End file.
